Court and Spark
by Azpidistra
Summary: COMPLETE Companion to the 'Phobia' series. Richie Ryan and Asher Jacobs have their first major fight. (An AU fic)
1. Prelude to Vanish

Author's Note: This is a companion story to the Phobia series. This particular story is set between Avitaphobia and Isolophobia. It is suggested you read Avitaphobia first. I only own Asher Jacobs. I have borrowed the others for my own amusement. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -----------------------------------------------------  
  
November 18, 2004, 830 PM, Le Blues Bar, Paris, France  
  
Asher Jacobs could taste her nerves. Over the brief break between the lunch and the dinner rushes, Richie had pointed out she should be used to the rhythm of performing. After all, since she had started waitressing Le Blue's Bar nearly two months ago, Duncan had had her slated to perform almost every week.  
  
But she still felt apart from the crowds. Granted, she did not perform new material every week. She did not write that quickly. But she had a notebook filled with her old attempts at songwriting and music, written in her post-rebellion days. For those who knew her well, her mood could be gauged from the words and the tone of the music.  
  
Tonight, once again, she was slated to play. It was quieter than usual. But with only a week to go before the American holiday of Thanksgiving, it was understandable. Asher was in the backroom tuning her guitar, while Richie sat at the computer, writing and sending an email.  
  
"Sound good to you?" she asked, looking up briefly from the strings.  
  
"I'd say so. I'm not much of a music person."  
  
"Yeah, I know. I hear your sour attempts of singing in the shower."  
  
Richie glanced over his shoulder to stick his tongue out, and Asher laughed, aware of the nerves sliding through her body like water, flowing from her veins into the air.  
  
"I'll have you know, Asher, that I composed that song specifically for you."  
  
"Remind me to never have you perform in public then."  
  
She bent over her instrument again, her hair falling across her cheek, to hum the words to the tune one last time. "And, now, I am proud to present," she heard Duncan's voice through the cracked office door, "our very own, Asher Jacobs."  
  
"Wish me luck," she whispered, leaning in to kiss Richie.  
  
"Good look."  
  
Stepping her way through the tables, Asher took the seat on the stage, her guitar in hands. Darcy cast her an equally supportive, but mischievous smile, while Mike flashed her the thumbs up.  
  
"I call this song 'Free Woman in Paris'."  
  
The way I see it  
  
She said you just can't win it  
  
Everybody's in it for their own gain  
  
You can't please them all  
  
There's always somebody callin you down  
  
I do my best and I do good business  
  
There's alot of people askin for my time  
  
They're trying to get ahead  
  
They're trying to be a good friend of mine  
  
I was a free woman in Paris  
  
I felt unfettered and alive  
  
There was nobody callin me up for favors  
  
And no one's future to decide  
  
You know I'd go back there tomorrow  
  
But for the work I've taken on  
  
Stokin the star maker machinery behind the popular song  
  
I deal in dreamers and telephone screamers  
  
Lately I wonder what I do it for  
  
If I had my way, I'd just walk through those doors  
  
And wander down the Champs-Élysées  
  
Goin' café to cabaret  
  
Thinkin how I'd feel when I find that very good friend of mine  
  
I was a free woman in Paris  
  
I felt unfettered and alive  
  
Nobody was callin me up for favors  
  
No one's future to decide  
  
You know I'd go back there tomorrow  
  
But for the work I've taken on  
  
Stokin the star maker machinery behind the popular song  
  
The last word echoed against the applause. Asher smiled shyly, idly strumming three notes before she launched into the second, then the third, and finally her fourth, and last song. It was a ritual with her: she always performed exactly four songs.  
  
Curtsying, she stepped from the stage, coming to the bar, where Mike passed her a full glass of water. "Thanks," she spoke between swallows.  
  
"You can pay in your service," he teased. "That third song of yours, 'Extant', what does the title mean?"  
  
"Playing literary teacher again, Mike?" she grinned. "It translates to still existing, or not destroyed or lost. I don't know the origin."  
  
"Makes sense. That line in the chorus, 'conversing in the kitchen/feet dangling back the wood/she was not the brightest crayon/but she persevered/life never lost/a girl extant/bring about the world if you could. . .'. I understand it now. When'd you write that song?"  
  
"After I di -after my mother died. I wrote the first song then too."  
  
"Well, you did great, Asher."  
  
"Thanks, Mike. Richie disappear in back again?"  
  
"Probably. If he is, tell him to get his arse out here to work. Duncan seems to disappear mid fourth song, so it falls to me to keep you three slackers in line."  
  
"Lucky you," she smiled.  
  
--------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Richie was not in back, nor was he anywhere to be seen. Slightly perturbed, and more upset, Asher hid her guitar once again in the case, kept in the backroom, and slipped back into the busy bar to wait her tables. Darcy attempted to catch her eyes a few times, once deliberately touching her shoulder, but Asher focused entirely on her own thoughts and the orders given to her by the customers.  
  
"You ok, Asher?" Darcy asked pointedly, having drawn Asher away from the crowds into some privacy of a corner behind the counter.  
  
"Fine. Just, have you seen Richie?"  
  
Darcy looked at her strangely. "Yeah, he left right after you went on. Followed some strange guy out. Said he wouldn't be too long. Why?"  
  
"No reason," lied Asher. "I wanted to ask him to take my guitar home. I hate to leave it here for too long."  
  
Darcy seemed satisfied with the answer. Both returned to their work, but for the most of the remaining night, Asher found her attention constantly drifting to the front door, hoping every time the bell chimed, it was Richie. 


	2. His and Her Hearts

Author's Note: Apparently, I forgot to mention this in last chapter disclaimer. the song 'free woman in paris belongs' to joni mitchell. the song 'Extant' belongs to me.  
  
november 19, 2004, 1230 Am, le blues bar/the apartment of richie ryan, paris  
  
"Want a ride home?" asked Darcy. Still dressed in the waist white apron, the Irish girl wiped the last of the tables. Duncan had closed the bar almost an hour ago, after the last drunken patron had left, and now, only Darcy, Duncan, and Asher remained.  
  
"No, but thanks. I'd rather walk."  
  
Darcy paused in her work, looking up, casting her full attention and gaze on Asher. "It's late. This is Paris. It's not safe."  
  
Asher smiled sadly. "Don't you worry about me, Darce. I'll be fine. You go ahead. I still need to talk to Duncan."  
  
"Fine, but if you change your mind, you know my number." She wiped the last of her tables, removing the apron as she crossed the floor to behind the counter. She pulled her leather jacket on, frowning once more. "You sure you're ok, Asher?"  
  
"I'm fine. Promise. Besides, you wouldn't want the extra timeframe of taking me home. Keep you away from your admirers."  
  
"Let them wait. It would do them good. Mike most of all." At this, Asher raised her eyebrows, and Darcy giggled. "Don't give me that look, Asher Jacobs. I know how he looks at me when I have turned away. Hatred is never as deep as it seems."  
  
"You going to sleep with him?"  
  
"That's my goal, eventually."  
  
"You going to marry him?"  
  
"I would rather kill him," grinned Darcy. "Good night."  
  
"Night, Darce." Asher cast her eyes around the bar. She could hear Duncan in the backroom. The door was closed, and she tentively knocked. Once, Mike had found Duncan in there, close to sobbing, not long after Adam had first left, and they had all walked around Duncan carefully since. Like they would on eggshells.  
  
It was two full minutes before the Scotsman came to the door, cracking it open. "Oh, hey, Asher. I thought I heard you leave."  
  
"No, Darcy left. I wanted to talk to you."  
  
"Sure, no problem. Just, hold on, will you?"  
  
Duncan shut the door again quickly. Once again, Asher could hear the sounds of a scuffle from the backroom. He had to have been cleaning something away, or hiding something, but Asher knew not to ask.  
  
"So, what's up?" asked Duncan, opening the door again, and gesturing Asher inside the office.  
  
"I need tomorrow off."  
  
"Everything ok?"  
  
"Everything's fine. I have an appointment with the admissions at Paris Law School."  
  
"Congratulations, Asher. Good with luck with that. Darcy should be ok covering tomorrow. And, I could always get Richie to help. He's here everyday anyway."  
  
At the mention of Richie's name, a shadow crossed Asher's face, but it was so quickly spent, that Duncan wondered if he saw it at all. "Thanks, Mac. Night.."  
  
She closed the office door behind her, retreating behind the counter to retrieve her coat and purse. She distinctly heard Duncan curse the computer behind the closed door, and she muffled her laugh behind her hand. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ----  
  
She had lied to Darcy. She did not walk home, but had taken a taxi. Trekking up the stairs to the apartment she shared with Richie, from outside the door, she felt the buzz of a fellow Immortal. Quietly unlocking the door, she pushed the door open, stepping tentatively inside. "Richie?" she called.  
  
"Who else would I be?" called the familiar voice, stepping out of the bathroom, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. He reached in for a kiss, but Asher stepped back. Richie frowned. "Asher?"  
  
"Where did you go?" She had closed the door, and now stood before it, leaning back against it, her keys and purse still in hands.  
  
"Someone challenged me. I accepted. No big deal."  
  
"No big deal?" Asher repeated. "You never came back."  
  
"Were you worried, Asher?"  
  
"Yes." The word was quiet on her lips, barely more than a breath of air. Richie sighed, stepped forward, lifted his hand to cup Asher's chin. She did not move away. "I was."  
  
"I'm a good fighter, Asher. I had a good teacher, and I never lose. I can not afford to lose."  
  
"Why didn't you come back to the bar?" Asher stepped away from Richie again, this time moving towards the couch.  
  
"I don't know," he shrugged. "I guess, just you know that feeling you get off a Quickening. Full of energy, full of adrenaline. I needed to do something to release it. So, I went running. Everywhere. No course, no plan. Until I could not run anymore. It was late, I had figured Mac had closed the bar, so I thought to meet you back here."  
  
"You could have called. You do have a cell phone."  
  
"I could have, yes. Look, Asher, I'm sorry I worried you. I swear I never meant to. But don't you think, you may be blowing this out of proportion? I mean, I'm here, aren't I?"  
  
"I'm blowing this out of proportion?! This is not one of your sill games, Richie! You could have been killed. Don't you realize what that means? To Mac, To Adam, To Amanda and Nick, to me? Dammit Richie, I love you! I don't want to lose you."  
  
For several moments, Richie said nothing. While both knew how the other felt, had felt since meeting, neither had voiced the feeling. He was dumbfounded, finally reaching out again to Asher again. "I am sorry, Asher."  
  
But when he reached his hand to move her closer to kiss her, she moved away again. "Don't touch me, Richie. I don't think I can do this anymore."  
  
"Do what?" His throat suddenly went dry.  
  
"You, me, us. This. I cannot live like this. Playing this Game. I cannot lose anything more. I cannot lose you."  
  
"You will not lose me, Asher. I promise. I love you."  
  
"I know," she whispered. She looked to him again. He looked pitiful, hair still wet, wearing nothing but the towel, goosebumps crawling up his arms and chest, a sad expression marring his features. She reached her hand to touch his cheek, kissing his mouth once, tenderly. "I know."  
  
She was gone. The door slammed behind her. Richie stood rooted to where he was. Knowing his heart had just walked out the door. 


	3. Richie Goes for Advice

November 19, 2004, 145 AM, Duncan MacLeod's barge, Paris, France  
  
Richie waited fifteen minutes before he dressed, and left the apartment, locking the front door behind him. The barge, he would head to Duncan's barge. He needed advice, and he supposed the best person to ask would be his best friend.  
  
Only, he would walk there. It was cold, or colder than the past weeks, but he thought the brisk air would be good for him. Help to clear his head. Help to sort his scattered, broken thoughts.  
  
He knocked loudly, stomping his feet against the pavement, blowing into the palms of his hands. He had pulled the coat Tessa and Duncan had bought him that first Christmas over some University sweatshirt he had borrowed (and never returned) from Nick Wolfe, but he still felt the cold to his bones. Looking to the sky, he knocked loudly again, having noticed the sky threatened to snow.  
  
Duncan opened the door, shirt thrown in haste over his boxers, hair wild, sword in hand, a Gaelic swear escaping from his mouth when he saw Richie there. "Hey, Mac," greeted Richie sheepishly. "I was in the neighborhood and thought I would stop by."  
  
"Do you have any clue as to what time it is?" Duncan lowered his sword.  
  
"Must be about one."  
  
"Try closer to quarter to two. Go home, Richie. I'd like to go back to sleep."  
  
"Pleeeese, Mac," pleaded Richie. "It's cold. And, I walked here, and I need your advice, and come on, pleeeeeeese."  
  
Duncan sighed. "Fine. Come inside." He opened the door wider, and stepped back, so Richie could walk by him. "Close the door. Want some coffee?"  
  
"Sure. Thanks."  
  
Richie wandered, crashing into the couch, rolling his head against the backframe. "Doesn't your place ever get messy?"  
  
"No," responded the Highlander from the kitchen. "Did you want your coffee black?"  
  
"Please."  
  
It was several more minutes before Duncan brought the two coffee mugs over, handing one to Richie, and sitting in the armchair. "Now, tell me, what brought you here in the middle of the night, that has you so desperate to talk to me?"  
  
"Advice?" shrugged Richie. He swallowed some coffee gratefully.  
  
"On?"  
  
"Girls. Relationships. Love. The Stock Market."  
  
"Ah," mumbled Duncan. He sat further back in the chair, sipping his coffee. While in the kitchen, he had managed to tame his hair, having pulled it back, and had found a pair of jeans, which he now wore, but had left unbuttoned. "I can help you in the first three. As for that last one, suggest you give a call to Amanda. She 's the only one of us who's illegal enough to know anything of cheating the corporate companies."  
  
"I'll keep that in mind," Richie nodded. He swallowed more of his coffee. "Asher and I had a fight."  
  
"I see."  
  
"Cut the bullshit, Mac. This psychiatric act, I mean. Just give it to me straight. What do I do?"  
  
"You've dated girls before, Rich. Several, if I am not mistaken. Aren't you the one who once bragged to Tessa of your conquests?"  
  
"Yeah, but that was different. I was younger, and," he paused to swallow more coffee, "I wasn't in love with them."  
  
"Well, that does make a difference. What was the fight about?"  
  
"Me not calling. I was challenged. Left the bar, and went home instead of calling her. She had been worried, and left saying she had enough of this."  
  
"This?"  
  
"The Game."  
  
"Oh, I see." Duncan paused to think, sipping his coffee. "Do you know where she might have gone to?"  
  
"No. I mean, she did leave her things at the apartment, but I don't know. Who am I to stop her from leaving the country? I know little of her life before her First death. She almost left once, what would stop her from leaving now?"  
  
"You," he breathed, sighing when he saw the expression on Richie's face. "I don't know what to tell you, Rich. You have to figure this out on your own. Relationships are about sacrifices. Sounds to me, like you and Asher need to talk."  
  
"Maybe she visited Darcy," he added, speaking more to assure himself, than to respond to Duncan. "We did talk, Mac," he added, this time louder. "We talked, then she left."  
  
"So, talk again."  
  
Duncan stood to rinse his mug in the sink. He still had coffee left, but he couldn't drink it, and he sighed as he watched the black liquid slip down the drain. "Did you want more coffee?" he called.  
  
"No, I'm good. Is this how you felt when Methos left?"  
  
"That is different."  
  
"How?"  
  
"It just is." Duncan came to sit in the chair again, leaning against the back. "For one reason, I am certain that he left the country. Asher might not have."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"You love her, right?" To which, Richie nodded. "Then I suggest, you talk to her," Duncan suggested. "Tell her you love her."  
  
"I did. She told me too, and she still left."  
  
"Then maybe, she just needs some time. Let her clear her head. Figure out what she wants. She's been through a lot, Rich. Maybe she feels everything is moving too fast for her."  
  
"But I want to help her."  
  
"I know you do. But sometimes we cannot always help." Duncan stood, gently squeezing Richie's shoulder, casting him a sad smile. "I don't want you walking home. You'll catch your death."  
  
"I can't die, Mac."  
  
"I know, but that's not the point. I'll find you another blanket. You can sleep on the couch."  
  
Richie shrugged, but nodded his consent. "At least, I don't have to listen to you all night." Duncan sent him a withering look, and Richie looked down to his feet. "Hey, Mac?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Thanks." 


	4. Gone

November 19, 2004, 900 AM, Duncan MacLeod's Barge/the Apartment of Richie Ryan, Paris, France  
  
Grumbling in a still half-sleep induced state, Richie glanced at his watch. Barely nine. He buried his head into the pillow again; trying to remember what time he had finally fallen asleep. Had to have been about three, maybe a little earlier. And, from the crink in his neck, he remembered suddenly that he was at Duncan's, and that he had fallen asleep on Duncan's couch. Sitting, to massage the sore muscles, he regretted having given Duncan permission to turn his old bedroom into something not his old bedroom.  
  
He was awake for the day. Squinting in the half-darkness of the barge, he could feel the familiar presence of Duncan still asleep in his bedroom. Coffee, he needed coffee. Stumbling across the floor, he found the discarded pot from last night, exchanging the old grounds for fresh, setting the maker to make half a pot. He found some cereal in the pantry, and poured himself a bowl while he waited. He was just pouring himself a mug of the black, hot coffee, when Duncan stumbled from his room.  
  
"Morning, Mac. Coffee?"  
  
"I thought I just had coffee," he mumbled, but nonetheless, he poured himself a mug, and took a long, grateful sip. "You leave any milk?"  
  
"Still a few drops left."  
  
Duncan reached into the refrigerator, coming up with an empty milk carton. "What have I told you about returning empty milk cartons to the fridge?"  
  
"I don't know," shrugged Richie, slurping cereal and milk into his mouth. "You can't tell me anymore."  
  
Duncan sighed, mentally adding milk to his shopping list. "So, you figure out you are going to do?"  
  
"I think so." Richie's voice was uncertain. "I mean, I know what I need to say, I just don't know how to say it. I love her. I've never been in love before, not like this," his thoughts trailed.  
  
"Angie?" Duncan guessed as to the direction.  
  
"Yeah. Don't suppose I could reach her in Japan?"  
  
"She never left a number?"  
  
"No. I kind of wish Tessa was here. She would know what to do."  
  
"I know, I know." He squeezed Richie's shoulder.  
  
Sighing, Richie finished his cereal and coffee, taking careful note to fill both with water to soak, until of simply leaving them in the sink. He bid Duncan farewell, thanking him again for last night, and made his long walk back to his apartment.  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
He found Asher in the bedroom, stuffing her clothes and belongings into her bag. He noted with sad amusement that it was the same oversized duffel bag she had used when she had first come to Paris. He saw her guitar, already in its case, propped up against the dresser.  
  
"Leaving, Asher?" he asked quietly, standing in the bedroom doorway.  
  
"Yeah. I had hoped to be gone before you returned. I'll be gone soon, don't worry."  
  
"I don't want you to leave."  
  
Asher stopped her hurried packing long enough to meet his solemn gaze. She sighed, and threw another undergarment into the bag. "Love isn't something you can organize, clean up or make rational conclusions about, Richie. It is more. . . complicated."  
  
"Uh-huh. And you leaving is rational?"  
  
"Richie," she breathed, the puff of air blowing back her bangs, "this is not a matter of want. This is matter of need. I need to leave."  
  
"Where are you going to go?"  
  
She shrugged, zipping her bag closed, sweeping the room to make sure she had forgot nothing. "I don't know. Southern Hemisphere, maybe. It's spring there."  
  
She swung her bag over her shoulder, picked-up her guitar case. Richie did not want to recognize that she was wearing the same shirt, the same black sweater-coat she had worn the first day they had met. He stepped aside to let her pass. "Just answer one question for me, Asher," he begged before she could close the door behind her. She nodded. "Why?"  
  
It was a long time before she answered, and she refused to look at Richie when she finally did. "Because two broken halves do not make a whole, Richie."  
  
She was gone. The door closing echoed throughout the apartment. She was gone, and this time she had taken all of her stuff. He walked again into the bedroom. The room seemed empty. The apartment seemed empty. He had grown used to having her around, having her there. Maybe that was it; maybe he had begun to take her for granted.  
  
He sighed, again, and raked a hand through his hair. His gaze fell on the nightstand, and he inhaled sharply. There was the tiny pewter model of the Eiffel Tower he had given her for her birthday two months earlier. Sitting, just as she had always left it.  
  
He crossed the room, took the model into his hands, fingering it. It was a few seconds more before he noticed the folded notebook paper on the nightstand, under where the model had stood. He dropped the model on the bed, unfolded the note, and read: One special moment, one special moment/When you choose to stand tall/And you know you are not alone/And though the surface may still crack/You break new paths/Into a new world, into a new world.  
  
He recognized the words. It was from the song Asher had sung two months before in Le Blues Bar, when he had first given her both the model, and he had also first given her his whole heart. Quickly, he pocketed both the note and the pewter model, and raced out of the apartment.  
  
He only hoped he would not be too late. 


	5. She Will Return

November 19, 2004, 940 AM, the Train Station, Paris, France  
  
In the car ride to the train station, Richie made three phone calls. First, he called Darcy. Second, he called Mike.  
  
"Bonjour, Darcy is currently either otherwise engaged or otherwise *engaged*, or she is simply ignoring you. Please leave a message, and she will call you back shortly."  
  
"Hello, you have reached Mike Ross. I am unavailable right now, but please leave a message, and I will call you shortly."  
  
Richie sighed, pulled a sharp left turn, and left urgent, short messages on both answering machines. Finally, he called the New York apartment of Nick Wolfe and Amanda, in the rare hope maybe Asher had contacted them (if she was to leave the country), but they too did not answer their phone. He did not leave a message.  
  
He reached the train station in fifteen minutes, having broken several traffic laws in the process. He stuffed his cell phone in his jacket pocket, and raced indoors to the ticket window. "Monsieur, Monsieur," he called, banging on the closed glass window. "Monsieur, please, I need to know if a train just left here."  
  
"A train left but five minutes ago, Monsieur. Did you want to buy tickets for the next?"  
  
"Non, merci."  
  
Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he turned, shuffling his feet against the cold tile floor. The station was empty. He must have missed her. Dejected, he crashed into a chair, his head falling into his hands, rolling a debate in his mind: would Asher have left on the train, or would she have gone somewhere else?  
  
"Richie?"  
  
His head shot upwards at the sound of his name. Not five feet in front of him stood Asher. He stared at her for several uncomfortable seconds, before he leaped from the chair, crossed the distance between them, and crushed her in his arms. "Oh, gods, Asher. I thought I had missed you. When he said the train had left, I thought. . . I thought you were gone. . ."  
  
"You're babbling, Richie." She pushed him away, and she took a step back. "And, I have a ticket for the next train."  
  
"Oh," he sighed, stepping back himself. "You forgot these." He pulled the model and note from his pocket, offering them to her, one held in each hand. "I recognized the song. It was my birthday present."  
  
"I had hoped you would. Keep them. To remember me by. Give me reason to come home."  
  
"I don't want you to leave, Asher." He transferred both objects to his left hand  
  
"I already told you. I need to." She sighed, fiddled nervously with the attached belt of her black sweater-coat. "We're too attached to one another, Richie. We need some space, to re-evaluate what we are to one another."  
  
"Funny. Mac said almost the same exact thing."  
  
"You asked Mac about me?"  
  
"I asked him for advice, yes. Asher?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Will you come back?"  
  
Asher smiled sadly. She reached a hand to him, and he met her in the middle, linking his fingers loosely through hers. She turned their hands, so the palms faced up, before she turned them down again. "I have only dated one other person. He used me. Granted, I used him as well, but I promised myself to never fall into that trap again. I don't deserve it. You don't deserve it, Richie."  
  
"I would never do that to you, Asher."  
  
"I know, I know." She squeezed his hand lightly. Over the speaker system, a voice announced the arrival of a train. Asher unlinked their hands, stepped back again, swinging her bag onto her shoulder, taking her guitar case in her hand. "That's my train."  
  
"You promise to return?"  
  
He sounded vulnerable. Asher paused in her step to the platform, throwing a backwards glance over her shoulder, smiling softly. "I promise."  
  
Richie waited until the departing whistle sounded, and the train pulled away from the station. For several more moments, he sat in his car, drumming his fingers against the wheel, watching the sky. He did not know for what. In the same moment he started the ignition, his cell phone rang.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"Hey, Rich, it's Mike. You called?"  
  
"Yeah, I did. Listen, where are you?"  
  
"Home. I roped the day off. You working today?"  
  
"Mac hasn't asked me. Mind if I stop by? I need some company."  
  
"My door's always open. Have you had breakfast yet?"  
  
"No, not yet."  
  
"Good, I'll cook something. Better to converse eating, then not." He paused. "Everything ok with you, Rich?"  
  
"No, but I'll explain everything."  
  
He ended the call, promising to be over within the half hour. Watching for cars, he pulled a right out of the station lot. He sighed, with one hand still on the wheel, he jammed the other hand into the pocket. He felt the model. He smiled. She would come back again. 


	6. New York Juxtaposed

Author's Note: Please note, there was a time jump from last chapter to this chapter.  
  
December 3, 2004, 830 PM, New York, New York  
  
In New York for two weeks, and outfitted in a new dress of periwinkle blue and two inch black heels, Asher stepped into the Italian restaurant. She had spent those two weeks re-seeing the familiar sights, shopping, revisiting her old haunts. Now, she met a friend for dinner. "Bienvinido, miss. Just one for this evening?" asked the hostess.  
  
Asher tightened the black shawl tighter around her shoulders, and she clutched her purse tighter. She had taken care to dress nicely. She wore tiny periwinkle barrettes in her hair. This was a fancy restaurant. "Non, I am to meet a friend here," she answered in flawless Italian, and she hid a smile at the surprised expression of the young woman. "A reservation under the name of Wolfe?"  
  
"But of course, miss. Follow me."  
  
Asher followed the girl through the tables, and over the polished wooden floor, to a back booth, where a woman already sat, perfectly groomed, wearing a tight silver-white dress, drinking a martini. "Darling!" she rose, kissing Asher's cheeks, and hugging her warmly. "Did you want anything to drink?"  
  
"Ice water," answered Asher timidly, and Amanda nodded, gesturing the hostess away. "Thank you again, Amanda, for meeting me."  
  
"Of course. Although, I was saddened to hear Richard could not make the trip with you."  
  
"He had to work," she answered through tight teeth. The hostess returned with the water, setting it onto the table, and Asher whispered 'Grazie' before taking a few sips. "Do you think I was wrong to leave him?"  
  
Amanda sat back, one arm draped gracefully over the leather of the booth. "You did what you thought was right, no?" Asher nodded, and Amanda smiled. "Richard will pull through. After all, he has Duncan to help him."  
  
"Duncan has his own problems."  
  
Amanda laughed, not cruelly, but almost condescendingly. "We all have problems, Asher. It is what makes us human."  
  
Asher swallowed some more of her water. "I think I may have made a mistake. I miss him. I love him."  
  
The waitress appeared, asking for their orders, to which they gave. Amanda ordered the veal special, while Asher asked for the eggplant parmigiana. The waitress nodded, and promised to return momentarily with their salads and bread.  
  
"Why did you leave him?"  
  
"Why do leave Duncan? Why did Adam leave Duncan? I needed the time apart, to re-evaluate my love for him. Or, I told him that much at least."  
  
"Meaning you think differently?" Amanda let the comment of her and Duncan slide.  
  
"I don't know. I promised him I would return."  
  
"And now you think you might do differently?"  
  
"I don't know."  
  
Asher cut herself a slice of the newly placed breadbasket, opening a butter. She had ordered the creamy garlic salad dressing, while Amanda had ordered the raspberry vinaigrette. A bottle of white wine sat between them, which the waitress said was a gift from some bar patrons. Amanda had sent a flirty smile and kiss their way.  
  
"I think you should figure things out, Asher, don't you?"  
  
"Si," she agreed.  
  
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It was almost eleven-thirty when the two finally left the restaurant. They had both enjoyed their meals, lingering over the coffee and tiramisu, talking of everything but men. Sighing now, walking the streets of Manhattan, Asher muttered, "I missed an interview for this."  
  
"An interview?"  
  
"For a law school in Paris. I'll reschedule when I return."  
  
Amanda nodded, for once, wisely saying nothing to response. "Did you need somewhere to stay? Nick and I have an extra bed."  
  
"No, I booked a hotel, but thank you."  
  
"How long are you here for?"  
  
"Not for long, but I can never return to the States without visiting New York."  
  
"You lived here?"  
  
"For a spell, yes." Asher smiled softly, nostalgically. "My last leaving was not exactly pleasant, but I remember the living itself fondly. Although, our house itself was in Westchester County."  
  
"Lovely area of the state," Amanda agreed. "You will call should you need anything then?"  
  
"Of course. Thank you, Amanda. Tell Nick thank you too, for dinner. It was his cards, no?"  
  
"But, of course, darling!" Amanda laughed. She pulled Asher into a hug. "Zdo send my love to Duncan and Richard should you see them before I do."  
  
"I will," Asher promised. She watched Amanda disappear into a fancy apartment complex, dress and perfume trailing behind her. Asher sighed. "I will," she repeated, and she turned to walk in the opposite direction.  
  
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Asher awoke to the sunlight streaming through her window. She pulled the covers tightly over her head, trying to block the light out, but had no luck. She swore lightly under her breath, and detangled herself from the sheets to shower.  
  
Finally dressed, she pulled her black sweater-coat over her blouse, and purse in hand, she closed the room door behind her. She stopped at the front desk, asking the concierge for a cab. When twenty-five minutes later, the cab pulled up before a small corner coffee shop, Asher thanked him, and stepped inside.  
  
She spotted him in the back corner, drinking coffee, reading the paper, an untouched croissant on a plate before him. Asher sighed, took a deep breath, ordered a hot chocolate and a muffin before she headed over to him. "Hello, Sam," she greeted.  
  
He lowered the paper, a cynical smile on his face. "Hello, Asher. How are you?"  
  
"I've been better. Thank you for meeting me."  
  
"Anything for you, Asher. Although, I was surprised to hear from you. I believe you swore you would never speak to me again last time you left New York."  
  
"I'm desperate," she whispered. She sipped her hot chocolate. "I blame you."  
  
"I am hurt, Asher. Here," he touched his palm to his heart. "And, I must admit, this is not usually my weaker point."  
  
"Bullshit, Sam. You have a soft spot for love. You know it, and I know it."  
  
"Fine, you caught me. How can I help you?"  
  
Asher took another deep breath, and swallowed more of her hot chocolate. "Why did you do it?"  
  
"Do? Do what?"  
  
"Use me."  
  
"If I remember correctly Asher, you used me too. What did you once say to me? That I was power-hungry, manipulative, bitter, and revengeful, I believe?"  
  
"I did," Asher admitted. "You told me I was cold and unloving."  
  
"I lied," he shrugged. "What do you want from me? It's too late for apologies now."  
  
"I'm not here for apologies, Sam. I only want explanations. I left Paris, probably destroying the one good thing I ever had for myself, and I blame you. I blame you!"  
  
"I am sorry, Asher. I had no idea."  
  
"It doesn't matter now." She shook her head, standing, leaving some change on the table. "Have a nice life, Sam. Should we ever see one another again, this meeting never happened, for I will most have likely died or given up."  
  
She left. Sam looked after her, frowned, and returned to his paper. He would be conferring the research documents tonight.  
  
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Back in her hotel room, Asher frowned, collapsed onto the newly-made bed. She knew what she had to do, knew what she wanted to do. Sighing, she picked up the phone, and she dialed the operator. "Yes," she asked, "yes, I would like to know when the next cruise ship will be leaving New York for London. And, if possible, if I could have a number for a train station upon arrival in London, please?"  
  
The operator asked her to hold. Asher obliged. 


	7. Reunion

Author's Note: Please note another (but smaller) time jump. Also, this is the last chapter.  
  
December 5, 2004, 1037 AM, Paris France  
  
Richie fumbled, hitting the alarm snooze button for the third time in the last twenty-seven minutes. He refused to awake, not caring what time the clock read, or if Duncan called to yell at him. Let him be late for work. He had worked double shifts almost every day for the past two weeks, and he needed the rest. Just like he had needed the distraction of the bar.  
  
He rolled over, burying his head into the pillow, pulling the sheet further over his head, lulling himself again into dreamless sleep. Again, the alarm blared. "Ok, ok, I'm up," he mumbled, trading sheets for the cold floor, pulling a t-shirt over his boxers, walking into the kitchen to see about coffee and breakfast.  
  
He finally had the steaming liquid-filled mug before him when the phone rang. He swore under his breath, answered it. "I'm not working today, Mac. I call in sick."  
  
For a long moment, there was no response, and then someone laughed. He recognized the laugh. It was Darcy. "Well, good for you. You've worked yourself to the bone these past two weeks. You deserve a brief holiday."  
  
"Oh, hey, Darce. I thought you were Mac."  
  
"I know," she laughed again, quickly sobering. "I'm on mission, Richie. I'm also late for a class, so I'll have to make this quick. Get dressed. Be at the train station in thirty minutes."  
  
Richie paused, swallowing coffee too quickly, scalding his throat, and he cursed. "Why didn't she call me herself?"  
  
"She didn't think you would talk to her. I have to go, Ryan. Good luck."  
  
Richie frowned at the dial tone. He lingered over his remaining coffee.  
  
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He purposely arrived at the station thirty minutes late. He found Asher sitting in one of the chairs, bag and guitar case at her feet. "Hey," she greeted. "I had thought you wouldn't show."  
  
"Yeah, well, I did," he replied lamely, and Asher smiled softly. "I'm still mad at you, you know. You still left. You deserved to wait."  
  
"I know you are, I did. I am sorry."  
  
"What made you come back?"  
  
"You, mostly."  
  
"Mostly?"  
  
"I missed Paris too," she shrugged, and smiled. Richie found himself smiling in return. "But I missed you, Richie. I love you. I don't deserve you, but I love you. I'm sorry."  
  
"I should walk away from here, Asher. I should walk away, to never return. Do you have any idea what it felt like? To watch you board that train, not knowing if you would keep your promise, not knowing if you would return, knowing my heart had left, and I may never see her again?" He paused, breathed deeply, clenched and unclenched his fists. "You are my heart, Asher, and you broke me. You. Broke. Me."  
  
"I am so sorry, Richie. I am so sorry."  
  
"You said two broken halves can never make a whole, Asher, but I believe they can. I was miserable without you. I feel whole with you, Asher. Only alone am I broken."  
  
"I know. I was wrong. But I needed this, we needed this, Richie. We were too attached. We took the other for granted. I've had my heart broken before, and I promised myself I would never let it break again. In the process, I hurt the one person who showed me how to live again." She drew in a ragged breath. "Forgive me, please?"  
  
"Asher," he breathed. He knelt before her, pulling him into his arms, hugging her to him tightly, pressing a tender kiss to her temple. "Promise me. Promise me you will never leave again."  
  
"I promise."  
  
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Later, much much later, Asher remembered, whispering seductively, "Amanda sends you her love."  
  
"Really? Well, her love will have to wait," growled Richie in response. 


End file.
